R5 One Shots
by LynchIsMyLife
Summary: On request, or if I think of an Idea, I write OCs for the members of R5 here ***PM ME FOR REQUESTS***


**HI, I'm hoping you still do R5 OC's.**

**Name - Zoe Montez**

**Age - 16**

**Looks - 5 foot 5, tanned, long curly brown hair and brown eyes.**

**Personality - laid back and arty (photography, art and plays the piano) likes to have fun and loves surfing, not top fond of rollercoasters**

**I'm hoping it can be a romance about Ross Lynch and how they met through a mutual friend or something like that. Could you maybe include how being artistic has left her a little bit isolated from everyone else at school but not left her depressed and stuff like and how her parents don't understand and want her to join her fathers law firm**

**Thank you**

**(love your stories btw)**

**7/16**

* * *

You can see it's getting dark outside, and the studio will be closing soon, but you can't leave just yet. You can't get this painting for the Art Festival right, it doesn't say what you want it to. You're totally stuck, so you take the canvas off the easel and tilt it back and forth, all different angles, as if the missing puzzle piece will suddenly show itself to you if the light hits it just right.

Suddenly, it comes to you.

_Oh, I think I've got it! It needs_-

The annoying buzz of your phone breaks the epiphany off.

"No!" you forget what you were thinking, your mind going blank.

You feel like punching something; you've been working on that stupid painting for over two weeks and the art show is tomorrow! You almost had it, too! You finally got the answer to the infuriating painting and you lost it because of a freaking phone call!

You pick your phone up and with one look at the screen, you hurl it at the wall. It's your mom, of course. She and your dad always ruin everything. They will never understand.

You take the canvas off the easel once more and break it over your knee, letting out all the frustration you feel towards your life at the moment, before chucking it across the room. It hits the concrete floor and the sound echoes through the studio. Mumbling profanities under your breath, you pick up your phone and reattach the battery cover because it came off when you threw it. You're glad you didn't let your parents give you that iPhone5. Unlike this old reliable clamshell phone, which didn't get a single crack, it would've shattered to pieces.

Thats the problem with mainstream.

You fast-walk out the front doors of the studio, not even bothering to pick up your mess, and go through the busy city streets. It's night now, making the lights around you glisten like stars. You hug your hoodie tighter, enjoying the urban scenery as cars of all shapes, kinds, and colors drive past. This is why you love the city. It's so adventurous and beautiful, and you never feel alone like you do at home sometimes. Everyone is different and unique.

Town Square is coming up in front of you, and you decide to see what's going on there before you catch a ride home. As you get closer, you hear music. Really, really _good_ music.

_"Me and all my friends,_

_we're all misunderstood._

_They say we stand for nothing,_

_and there's no way we ever could.."__  
_

You recognize your favorite song and immediately smile, but it's somehow different, the unfamiliar voice giving it new meaning with the emotion and pain put behind the simple words. You listen intently as you walk closer and faster, your feet carrying you in the direction of the acoustic guitar's melodious chords.

_"Now we see everything that's going wrong,_

_With the world and those who lead it._

_We just feel like we don't have the means,_

_To rise above and beat it..."_

You make your way through the square and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight before you. There's a young guy sitting on a wooden stool, his guitar case wide open in front of him. The street performer's head is bowed as he studies the frets and strums. He looks like a god, his golden hair serving as a halo as his eyes sparkle from the dim lanterns all around him. His voice is the voice of a million angels, his guitar having the effect of their harps. He's in his own world, unconcerned that he's gathered no one's attention apart from yours, just sitting there, playing his music with love in his glossy eyes. This guy is sincere, he's real. You can tell he's not in it for acknowledgement, he's in it for the music.

_"So we keep waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change._

_We keep on waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change._

_It's hard to beat the system,_

_When we're standing at a distance._

_So we keep waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change..."_

You find yourself swaying back and forth while you study his attractive features, trying to decide if he's real, or if you're imagining it.

"_Now if we had the power,_

_To bring our neighbors home from war,_

_They would have never missed a Christmas,_

_No more ribbons on their door._

_And when you trust your television,_

_What you get is what you got,_

_Cause when they own the information, oh_

_They can bend it all they want._

_That's why we're waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change._

_We keep on waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change._

_It's not that we don't care,_

_We just know that the fight ain't fair,_

_So we keep on waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change..."_

He still hasn't looked up, but you feel as though he's speaking directly to you. You hum along, enjoying your private little show. How these people aren't even giving him a second glance is completely beyond you. He deserves a whole stadium fillies with adoring fans with talent like that.

_"And we're still waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change._

_We keep on waiting waiting on the world to change._

_One day our generation,_

_Is gonna rule the population._

_So we keep on waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change._

_We keep on waiting,_

_Waiting on the world to change."_

As the final notes fade out, you walk forward and place a one-hundred dollar bill in his guitar case. Stunned, his head whips up to you and you swear you see his pupils dilate. You blush like mad, smiling at him shyly.

"That was really good.."

He picks up the bill from his case and his eyes widen before he smiles.

"Good enough for a hundred dollars?" He raises an eyebrow with a crooked smile that makes you melt.

"Good enough for a _million_ dollars."

"Well thank you..." He seems hesitant.

"What's wrong?"

"I just feel guilty, I can't accept a hundred dollars from you." He tries to hand you back the bill but you gently push it away from you.

"No, take it! I have plenty of money, trust me."

He takes your hand and gently forces the green paper into your palm before closing your hand around it. Your heart flutters and your cheeks are on fire.

"It's not about the money." He says, and you believe him.

You stare into each others eyes for a long time. "That was really inspirational." You blurt when his gaze puts too much pressure on you.

He smirks. "Really now."

You nod. "Do you write any songs yourself?" You move to his side so that you can talk easier.

"I do," he says. "I find something new to write about every day."

You sigh. "I wish I was like that.. See, I'm an artist and tomorrow there's an Art Festival in town. I'm sure you've seen the flyers all around town.." He nods, listening to you. He looks genuinely interested in your life, which makes you happier than you would admit.

"Well, I'be been working on my entry for weeks now but it just wouldn't. Freaking. Work with me!" you jump slightly up and down in exasperation. He laughs lightly at your quirky actions, making you blush before you continue. "_So_ I kind of.. broke it over my knee." You hide your face in your hands. His eyes widen. "Oh no!" He looks really sad for you. "I know!" You wail. "I guess I'll just have to wait until the next show.."

"You're just not gonna go?"

"Oh, no. I'll be going either way. I love to see all of the things people can come up with." You explain. He nods, seeming deep in thought while he packs up his guitar. "Well, since we're friends now, would you care to go get a sub sandwich with me?" You blush furiously and nod. "Okay..."

•~•~•~•~•

The boy walks you up to your front door, and you thank him before going inside. Just then, you realize you didn't get his name, or his number. Gasping, you fling the door open, but his car is long gone. You groan angrily at yourself. You just couldn't get anything right all day! You bang your head on your front door once and turn around, only to be met by your angry parents.

"Where have you been, young lady?!" Shouts your mother.

"It's two hours past your curfew and you didn't call _once_!" Your dad's face is red in anger. Suppressing the urge to role your eyes, you say, "I'm sorry! My phone died and so I didn't realize the time! After the library," you lied to your parents and said you were at the library because they forbid you to go to the studio, saying it was 'distracting you from your schoolwork'. "I went for a walk with Cassie and we lost track of time." Cassie was the snooty girl your parents insisted you hang out with in hopes that her know-it-all prudish personality would rub off on you.

"Cassie? Cassie had you out so late?" Your father is shocked.

"That doesn't sound like her..." Your mom resend to have a silent conversation with your dad.

After an awkward five minute silence, your parents say in unison, "Go to your room, we'll talk about it in the morning." It's freaky how in-sync they are sometimes.

You walk up the stairs feeling incredibly sad and empty. You'll never see the inspirational boy ever again...

You shut your door. No. No, you can see him again. With the image of his beauty fresh in your mind, you dig out an old canvas and get work.

•~•~•~•~•

It's the next day after the meeting with the amazing boy, and you were standing in the art museum, waitigrid or the doors to open and let people in to see the paintings. Your heart beats rapidly, reflecting your excitement. As the doors swing open, people file in. You take the cover off your painting. The boy from last night is in the middle, bent over his guitar with that spectacular glint in his eye captured perfectly. Lanterns are scattered around him, and outside of the lanterns, in the darkness, is a montage of all the different who didn't even pay attention to him as he sung his heart out, and he didn't care. Soon, there's a huge crowd of people around you, asking you a million questions.

"Who inspired the painting?"

"How did you come up with it?"

"What does it mean?"

You politely hush the crowd before you begin your quick summary.

"I don't usually like to explain my artwork, since I feel the art should speak for itself, but since it's rather deep I'll make an exception... Last night, I saw the boy in the picture performing on the street and I was just in awe. He had more talent than you could ever imagine possible, but nobody even acknowledged him. I started making connections, and realized that this is the way the world works. The boy represents originality, a uniqueness of talent. And even though the people of the world, left in the dark by their ignorance of true talent, don't care to look twice in his direction, his light still shines so brightly as he does what only he can do. What he loves to do."

The people all around call you a genius, an inspiration, a diamond in the rough. But you just shake your head. "It was him, not me." You insist. But they will have none of it, and you are awarded the first place medal.

Now that all the people are leaving, they give you your prize, which is to have your painting hung on the wall. You're elated, now you'll have another thing to use jn convincing your parents that art isn't just a waste of time. You watch as the men frame it and hammer it onto the wall.

"You are an amazing artist." The voice sounds from next to you, making you jump out of your skin. You whirl around, and standing right there is the boy from the street.

"You... You again." You can't help the smile that conquers your face.

"Yeah," He chuckles. "I realized I didn't get your name last night, and I remembered you saying you had this art show thing... I thought I'd, um... Stop by." He blushes, looking down and biting his lip. You can't ignore how attractive that is, making you mirror his actions.

"Mm.." You hum, not knowing what to say.

"You did an amazing job by the way, I look even hotter than I usually do in this picture." He smirks, making you crack up.

"Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy." You joke, playfully smacking his shoulder. He just out his bottom lip in a pout.

You laugh and stare forward, admiring the way the painting hangs off the wall.

"Listen, I have to go," He says. "I have a family dinner.."

You frown sadly, sad that your time with him has ended. "My name's Ross Lynch..." He says, holding out his hand to shake. You shake his hand and smile widely. "Zoe Montez."

"That's a beautiful name." He says suddenly, then blushes. You smile even wider, if that's possible. Your nose crinkles as you giggle lightly. He smiles as well.

"... Um, can I, um... Have your number, Zoe?" He stutters.

"Of course." You smile, taking out your phone and bowing your head to look at it. Your hair falls into your face as you read the number off to him. When you look up, he finishes typing and grins before brushing your long, curly brown fringe out of your eyes and tucking it securely behind your ear. Your cheeks are on fire as you bite your lip.

He smiles, moving in for a hug. In his embrace, you feel warm and secure. Could Andy one person be so perfect? "Bye." He winks before walking down the corridor and opening the front door to the museum

"I'll call you!" He calls behind him with a huge smile as he walks out the door.

"Okay!" You giggle.

The door shuts behind him and you sigh in content. What a perfect day...

Suddenly, your phone buzzes.

*See you soon, beautiful. Xx*

Biting your lip, you blush again. Even when he's not with you, his words have the same effect. This boy has taught you a valuable lesson that you will carry around app your life, forever making you a better person. And the memory of that lesson is hanging on the wall of the art museum, passing itself on to everyone who looks at the blond, miracle street performer named Ross.


End file.
